Bar and Joey Read online

  We don’t wave back. Nor do we share grins with her.

  Lady Vampe winks, perhaps finds us youthful bait for her needs. Carefully, she probably undresses our bodies within the folds of her overactive mind. She says, “I’ve just finished a play in New York. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. The Challenge. A true moneymaker.”

  I shake my head.

  Kel shakes his head.

  “Perhaps I can do a scene for the pair of you, and the other guests, after you get settled in.”

  “Perhaps,” I tell her, being polite, but not really interested in her acting skills, or lack of.

  Ignoring the actress, Bar points at a young man sitting on Lady Vampe’s left side. He’s model-faced with deeply set eyes and showcases a sharp jaw. I know exactly who the stud is before Bar introduces him. The twenty-nine-year-old cutie with black eyes and matching hair ogles Kel, scans my sidekick from toes to head. He licks his plump, pink lips and rubs a palm down and over the cashmere sweater covering his muscled chest, perhaps flirting with my cohort.

  Kel confirms my knowledge of the man. He leans into me, lets out a soft whisper, and says excitedly with a nervous stutter in his voice, “That’s Magnum Ride.”

  “The one and only,” I whisper to him in return.

  Magnum Ride is a professional adult movie star. These days, he strictly performs in queer XXX films as a top: beefy, brawny, rugged, bearded, somewhat even-tempered in the bedroom with his men, and deep-voiced. Nothing screams weak or menial about the rugged stud. But anyone who knows a history of the star is well aware that when he was younger, fresh out of high school and only eighteen, new to the skin flick business, Magnum played a bottom in many roles, yelping, crying, and sometimes taking on three to five men in one scene, sexually overacting and being dominated.

  “I can’t wait to shake his hand, Joey.”

  Among other things, I think, knowing Kel owns an entire CD collection of the skin artist’s work and still, to this day, downloads the porn star’s recent naughty scenes on his personal laptop and cellular phone.

  After Bar shares the actor’s name with us, Kel immediately steps up to the stud and holds out his hand for a shake.

  Magnum takes in Kel’s handsomeness, tilts his head up and down in a swift action, and says, “You’re spunky. I like spunky men, and their spunk on me. Especially in the bedroom.”

  Bar clears his throat. “Moving on.” He steps up to a pair of men: one on the older side and a younger man in his mid-to-late twenties. “We have here Colonel Reginald McCarmichael and his young companion, Dash Hound.”

  Overly dressed in a black and red velvet tuxedo, Colonel McCarmichael nods and shares a bristly smile. “Good evening, gentlemen. It is a pleasure to meet you both.”

  As for his pet, over half the older man’s age and dressed in white from head to toe—I see the end of a thin and reflective gold chain gripped in the colonel’s left hand, and its opposite end around the young man’s neck as if it is his collar—Dash keeps stolid in his seat, motionless and being on his best behavior. It becomes quite clear to me the dominant and older man and his youthful and submissive lover travel everywhere together, bound by the gold chain, Master and servant executed. I assume Dash Hound is the colonel’s sexual slave, pet, and consensual lover. Familiar with such an odd arrangement, I’m well aware that if the chain between the two men is removed or broken, young Dash is set free, unbounded to his older friend, ready to roam the lands and find a new Master.

  The final guest inside the room is Bar’s Aunt Holiday, who is slumped over in her chair, snoozing the snowy evening away. The blue-haired geriatric smells like her old sweater and a fresh perm. Glasses on a gold chain droop from her neck. Her hands are tangled together on her lap. Light snores echo from her motionless body.

  I am not at all surprised to watch Magnum rise from his seat and gain my best friend’s attention. Rather abruptly, he steps up to Kel, poses a twinkle in his West Hollywood eyes, and says, “Follow me for some fun.” He discreetly pulls out a short and tight joint from somewhere in his clothes and waves it in front of his new find, catch, or someone of sexual importance, claiming Kel as his own for whatever pleasures he has in mind: getting high with, undressing together, and becoming sexually unraveled with each other.

  Kel glows, forgetting about his forehead. His face literally lights up with a fascinating red hue. “Of course, I’ll follow you…wherever you want to take me. I’ve had a thing for your body for years.”

  “Such children,” Lady Vampe says, rolling her eyes. She takes a faux drag on her cigarillo and exhales nothing from her lungs.

  “Hush, old woman,” Colonel McCarmichael grunts. “My pet is resting for the time being. Don’t disturb Dash.”

  Lady Vampe stands, gushes a fiery red, and points the tip of her cigarillo in the colonel’s direction. She brazenly suggests, “You’re a foul creature. How demeaning you treat that young man on your leash.”

  The colonel says, “Mind your own business. And remember we both know your movies are trash and your acting is below mediocre. Tell me how it feels to be a D-list actress, my dear. God knows you were probably fired from your play in New York.”

  The actress huffs, waves an arm at the colonel, and steps up to one of the large windows, looking into the white-washed day.

  “My apologies,” the colonel says to me. “Lady Vampire and I have a scathing history. Perhaps if you have a free moment during your stay, I can share the indiscreet and nasty details with you.”

  I politely nod and feel as if I have accidentally stepped into an Agatha Christie novel. I’m sure a corpse will soon appear upon my castle travels.

  Bertram enters the sitting room. He directs his attention to Bar and tells our host, “Sir Joey and Sir Kel’s rooms are now available in the towers. Mr. Foxford will be staying in the Princess room, and Mr. Redd with be staying overnight in the Prince room.”

  Bar instructs Slender Man, “Thank you. Can you now please find our guest Kel and bandage his forehead. He has a cut. I’m not really sure how he got the injury, but it does need some attention.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bertram says, turns on his heels, exiting the room.

  Lady Vampe and the colonel bicker about the same men they dated in their pasts. They clumsily share vulgar words one doesn’t commonly hear in a sitting room at a bed and breakfast: whore, skank, ass-eater, undignified dandy, wrinkled dick, and wildebeest.

  Pulling me away from the arguing and insulting pair, Bar says, “Let me show you to your room, Joey. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

  * * * *

  At his side, we exit the sitting room and enter the hallway again. To the far left is an all-wood stairwell leading upstairs, which he tells us we will be taking. Our shoulders brush together as we head towards the mahogany stairs. Crystal chandeliers shaped like upside down carnations illuminate the hallway. The LED lights flash off, on, off, and back on. Outside, howling sounds swirl against the stone castle, echoing in a boisterous and irritated tone.

  “Not a fun storm out there. Both your boyfriend and you will be safe here, though. No worries.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Kel isn’t my boyfriend. Between you and me, he’s probably trying to get into Mr. Ride’s tight jeans. I’m quite sure he won’t be using the Princess room alone tonight since he’s the actor’s number one fan.”

  Bar chuckles. “Well, we can both agree that Magnum is a handsome man, in and out of his clothes. I won’t lie and tell you I don’t know of his professional work.”

  So, Bar Moore likes to watch queer XXX flicks. Good to know. Honestly, by the feel of our connection, a comfortable bond between us in my opinion, I think he’s flirting with me, but I’m not sure.

  Feeling ballsy, I inquire, “Where is your boyfriend hidden in the castle?”

  As we make our incline on the mahogany stairway, he places a palm on my left shoulder and gently pats. “To be frank, I haven’t had a boyfriend in a few years. Let’s just say I haven’t been lucky in th
e love department.”

  “Perhaps that will change soon. Luck is in the air when lights flicker off and on and a blizzard is present.”

  “You’re lying.” He rubs my shoulder, surely hitting on me now. “Don’t make up fairy tales when you know they’re not true.”

  “I can’t agree to that.” I laugh and continue to enjoy his company, allowing him to lead me astray.

  Near the top of the stairwell, he asks, “What is it you do for a living, Joey Redd?”

  “I write greeting cards. Have you ever heard of the company called Heartfelt Home Cards?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sure I’ve seen one or two in my day.”

  “It’s a small company based out of Pittsburgh. We’re not Hallmark, but we do offer many lines of cards for all occasions.”

  “Most interesting,” he says. “Is there a card for being snowbound?”

  “Probably not, but I’m sure I can create one.”

  We come to the second floor. A long hallway stretches to our left: gold and red carpet, more chandeliers. Gold sconces hang on the walls, as well as vintage black and white photographs of the Foreboding Castle Bed and Breakfast in its younger days when it was freshly built in the year of 1891.

  Guttural and creepy moans echo down the hallway towards us. I turn to my host and ask, “Is the castle haunted?”

  “Of course. By many ghosts and dead family members.” He points down the length of hallway. “But that, my friend, isn’t of the supernatural. To me, it sounds as if Mr. Magnum Ride and your traveling companion are having a fun and intimate few moments in Ride’s room. Shall I say they are undressed and enjoying each other’s nakedness?”

  I laugh, agreeing.

  He laughs and asks, “Should we leave them be? We’ll continue to take the stairway to the third floor and your room.”

  “Please,” I tell him and follow him upwards, through the castle, entering what feels like a tower built around a spiraling staircase of thick and bumpy stone.

  He tells me the history of the Foreboding Castle Bed and Breakfast:

  “The Castle was built in 1891 by two men, Oliver Common and Thomas Holiday. Both men came from money and lived in New York City. Common’s wealth was from publishing, and Holiday’s fortune came from construction. The men were said to be lovers. While in their late twenties, scandal of their sexual affair caused them to move away from New York City. Thereafter, they discovered Frozentoe, falling in love with western Pennsylvania. Settling here, they both liked castles and decided to build the Frozentoe Hotel here. Unfortunately, fifteen years later, Oliver caught Thomas making love to another man. He shot Thomas in the head and immediately thereafter killed himself, an ugly murder-suicide. It’s one of the castle’s most horrible events and the reason why the Frozentoe Hotel soon turned into the Foreboding Hotel.

  “Michael Santer purchased the hotel from the Common/Holiday estate. He glammed the place up with antiques, rich colors, and pretty much what you see here today. Santer didn’t have a keen sense of business, though. Taxes were unpaid, and the hotel failed, closing three years later. Thereafter, my family purchased the property in 1912. My great-great aunt Lucinda Moore changed the name of the place to what it is today. Here, they lived a happy and haunted life. The bed and breakfast has had numerous cases of bad luck and residential ghosts throughout the years. Two murders. A handful of accidental deaths. And three suicides. The bed and breakfast has not been fair or kind to its guests and owners.

  “One interesting fact of the castle is about my great, great uncle Sebastian Miller Moore. He hung himself in the Princess Room where your friend will be staying the night, if he leaves Magnum’s room. Uncle Sabby, as he was called, was found wearing a dress, one high heel, and heavy lipstick. The year was 1921, I think. He left a note stating he felt more like a woman than a man and couldn’t be himself, unaccepted in the world.”

  “Such a sad ending,” I reply. “I embrace those people who find themselves and learn how to love who they are physically, emotionally, and mentally. Too many men and woman commit suicide today over such issues. Maybe we just need to lighten up as a society and further accept differences. The world would be a better place.”

  We climb the narrow and spiral staircase. I follow Bar up each step, studying his bottom: taut in navy slacks and swishing left and right as he moves upwards. I become rather delighted at the thought of rubbing up against his rear with my face, proving I know how to have fun with another man. This doesn’t occur, though. Instead, I concentrate on the lighting, which dims as we rise through the tower. The bright white turns into a mellow yellow hue, darkening with every step.

  He continues his chatter. “My cousin Fredrick Sherlock Moore shot himself in the dining room during a Fourth of July party in 1972. He was only twenty-one. The poor thing was hooked on LSD at the time and overloaded on the drug. Sometimes, you’ll hear Freddy in the middle of the night on the stairs in the castle. He likes to scare a few guests. Other times, I’ll hear the hallways fill with light choking, bleeding to death; Freddy reliving his deathly experience again and again.”

  “It sounds maddening, Bar. I can’t imagine living with a ghost, let alone a dozen.”

  “You get used to it. Now, tell me more about your life. Start with where you live. I’m sure you have dozens of stories and facts to share with me.”

  “I live in a two-bedroom Tudor near Heinz Field on the North Side of Pittsburgh. I’ve owned the place for well over ten years now. No pets. No roommates. Lots of hot coffee in the morning. No boyfriends, lovers, or a husband. It’s just me.”

  “Do you create you greeting cards out of your house?”

  “I do. I have an office on the second floor. It’s cozy with four windows that offer natural light. I have an office in downtown Pittsburgh, but usually work at home.”

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  “I don’t. I was a spoiled as a young child. A total momma’s boy. Now I think it’s embarrassing to admit to such a detail, but back then, I didn’t know any better.”

  “I have three sisters. We all grew up in this castle, helping to run the place. Livia, Lynn, and Lori. All three live in Jamaica. They run the Bogota Hotel along a beach. None of them are married.”

  “How often to do you see them?”

  “Once a year. I fly down for Easter, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. It depends how busy my schedule becomes. To tell you the truth, I love my sisters, but I can’t live with them for more than five days. They complain too much, become catty with me, and try to convince me to sell this place and move somewhere warmer.”

  “I’m sure you love these old bones,” I tell him.

  “Perfectly said, Joey. Thanks for being on my side.”

  We come to the top of the spiral staircase. Prince in all white lettering labels a navy blue door. He unlocks and opens the door, pushing it forward. Bar steps inside the tower’s single room and welcomes my entrance behind him.

  * * * *

  The room is circular with four windows, one positioned in each direction. A queen-size bed between two of the windows is decorated in navy blue fabric and loaded down with lots of pillows. The bed looks comfortable, nothing cheap. I see my single piece of luggage on the bed thanks to Slender Man. Gold Oriental rugs cover the ash-colored floor. I see a writing desk and chair, and a small dresser. To the right of the bed sits a small table with a single lamp. The lamp offers very little light, presenting our shadows on the circular walls.

  “It’s small but quaint,” he tells me. “The windows sometimes open on their own because of the wind. Try to keep them firmly latched and locked, although sometimes it’s hard. I’ve placed another blanket in the bottom of the dresser if you become cold. The towers stay quite crisp throughout the winters no matter how high the boiler in the basement is turned up. The castle is extremely old and without any updates. I can’t explain how inefficient it is on the budget.”

  “It’s nice,” I tell him, taking more of the room in.
r />   Two black-and-white pictures, taken in 1891 of the Foreboding Castle Bed and Breakfast while it was being built, hang near the east window on the walls. A vintage paperback copy of Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle sits on the single nightstand, probably a left behind novel by a previous traveler. There are no draperies over the four windows.

  He turns to me, making full eye contact, perhaps drawn to me in a queer action that I think of as mysterious, alluring, and friendly. “Dinner will be served at seven in the dining room. I do believe my staff will be making homemade bread and clam chowder soup for starters. The main entrée will be beef tips over noodles, unless otherwise informed. The kitchen staff is quite creative and will serve a spectacular dessert, as usual.”

  “Sounds enjoyable.”

  Behaving forwardly, he reaches forward and grazes fingertips over one of my shoulders. “If we’re lucky, the ghosts haunting the castle will leave us alone tonight. I can’t promise such a feat, though. Just a warning, of course. They do like to harass the many guests who pass through these rooms.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “If I may be forward, Joey Redd, you’re an extremely handsome man. I don’t usually tell guests this, but…I just can’t help myself this time. Forgive me.”

  “It’s fine, Bar. To tell you the truth, I’m flattered.”

  “Honesty is the best policy to follow, as the saying goes.”

  I nod, happy to be in the tower room with him, safe from all its disturbing and intrusive ghouls, ghosts, and other supernatural whatnots among the castle’s rooms.

  Catching me completely off guard, he pulls me against him in an easy and comforting embrace. His lips almost graze my neck. I feel his heartbeat drum against my own.

  Bar gently squeezes me and whispers, “Sorry, but I’m a man who likes to hug. I hope you don’t mind.”